walking in the streets , The streets felt foreign—like the world itself was erasing his past, one step at a time.
A truck rumbled past, its engine a deep growl in the quiet evening. He raised his hand instinctively, asking for a lift, but the vehicle didn't stop. His eyes, tired and distant, scanned the unfamiliar city. He was stranded, no money, no identification. His entire life, a wallet and a passport, had vanished.
He found his way to the police station, knowing full well what he'd find: empty promises, cold stares, and the routine drama of the system. But still, he walked in, telling them he'd lost everything. They handed him some change, barely enough to get by, and told him to make do.
With nothing but the worn clothes on his back, he stumbled into a life he didn't recognize. No shelter, no essentials—just a hunger gnawing at him. He was a ghost in his own life, walking a path he didn't know, toward a future uncertain.
His stomach growled, sharp and insistent. He wandered aimlessly until he found a fruit vendor. The colors of the produce were vibrant, but the prices were too much. His pockets were empty, and the little cash the police gave him wouldn't even cover a single piece of fruit. With a quiet sigh, he turned to leave.
But just as he took a step away, a voice cut through the air, smooth and calm. "I'll buy you something to eat."
He froze.
The voice came from a man in a black suit, standing tall against a streetlight pole like an actor in some strange, forgotten play. The suit was too neat for the grimy streets, too polished for the disarray of the world around them. His presence, like a shadow, felt wrong—like something was off.
The man's eyes locked with his, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. Was this a lifeline? Or a trap?
The stranger's offer hung in the air, tempting but distant. His stomach twisted with hunger, but a voice deep inside warned him to tread carefully. He could be anyone. A predator. A deceiver.
Without another word, he turned and began walking away, the stranger's figure lingering in his peripheral vision like a silent threat.
But the man didn't stop. The footsteps followed. His pace never faltered, always just a few feet behind. The city around him grew darker, more oppressive, the faces of strangers fading into shadows. He glanced around. No one was in sight. Only the faint echo of the man's steps, steady, unhurried.
His heart hammered in his chest. Panic surged, and he broke into a run.
The street blurred as he pushed forward, weaving through alleyways and sidestreets, hoping to lose the stranger. He didn't dare look back—didn't want to see those eyes, calm and knowing, right on his heels.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the sound of pursuit faded. He stumbled to a stop, breathless, alone in a forgotten corner of the city.
The silence was suffocating.
He hesitated, his eyes darting around. Was he gone? Had he outrun whatever dark force had followed him?
But when he looked up, the figure was there—standing in front of him. How? How had he gotten here so fast?
The man was still holding the bottle of water, his expression unreadable.
Without a word, he handed it over. The water was cold, a welcome relief, but the chill that ran through him had nothing to do with the drink. He took a sip, his mind racing, and then asked, his voice hoarse, "Who are you?"
The man smiled faintly, his eyes sharp, cutting through the darkness like a blade. "I know who you are. And I know what they did to you. Your friends… they betrayed you. Left you here to rot."
The words struck like a thunderclap, echoing in the quiet space between them.
His pulse raced. The weight of the truth—too close, too real—settled heavy in his chest. But the man wasn't finished.
"Now, you're mine."